Short Stories
by X4C1M2
Summary: Short stories I have written. Also available on my fictionpress account. /u/793875/
1. Acout Fantasy

_Acout Fantasy_, Written January 18, 2012

"Thanks" he says smiling as he takes his keys and wallet from my hand. He begins to jog back towards the school before he stops and turns around, "Hey, you're that video guy right?" he asks as I smile uncontrollably, trying to keep my cool.

"Yeah, that's me." I say, marveling at the fact that he knows I exist.

"Tamara told me you were good at editing photos and stuff."

"Yeah," I say, "That's what I do." I try to sound cool, but it ends up looking something short of a miserable failure. He nods and turns back around, and begins walking again. I fumble with two camera bags around each shoulder, looking for the rest of my film team.

"Do you need help?" he asks. I pause for a moment,

"If you don't mind," I say, "Thanks." As I pass over a camera bag and tripod, my hearts begins racing as his hand momentarily brushes against mine. Still in his football uniform, he escorts me to the supply room. The sound of his cleats echoes louder as we move away from the rowdy pandemonium of the change room. He holds the door for me as we walk up the staircase. I smile at him briefly, as he returns the gesture. I feel as if our intentions are different, but can't help but let fantasy drive the feeling. We finally reach the supply room door, only to be greeted by the absence of light. The room is completely empty.

"Oh, crap! We'll have to go around," I say, "Sorry."

"Don't worry about it," he says, "The whole school is going to see the video, right?" I was really going to make someone else edit it, but since he said that, my priorities have changed.

"Yeah," I say, "It might be a while before it's finished. I still need to interview one of the coaches."

"You can interview me, if you'd like," he says grinning.

"I think the camera's dead," I say heartbroken. I really wanted to interview him. Like fuck, I really wanted to have a conversation with Mathew Jaime Rehn about football, despite my lack of general knowledge.

"You know what, don't worry about it," he says in a passive tone. I immediately cut him off,

"But we could definitely do an interview any time of the week!" I try to sound convincing, without coming off viciously desperate. "I'm sure it'll be good to get more screen time during the Sports Recap!"

"You're right," he says smiling. We drop off the equipment in the media supply room and I walk with him towards the change room.

"I'm busy tomorrow, and I have really intense practice every day, next week." I just keep quiet and let him talk. "Coach Mach gets pissed when one of the video kids pulls us out of practice—no offense—so the only time we can do this, is this weekend."

"Oh," I say barely believing what he just said.

"You know what, just drop it," he says, "You don't want to interview me at my house."

"I think it'll be interesting," I say enthused, "We've never interviewed someone in their natural location." I can't believe I just said _natural location_.

"And how has football helped you grow as an individual?" I ask.

"Football…really…you know, helps me develop leadership and…and…uh" he starts laughing in embarrassment, "Can we take a break?" he asks exasperated.

"Sure. We've been filming for nearly an hour." I reach over to the camera, then sit on the edge of his bed, sipping on the ice cold water he brought upstairs earlier. I gaze around the room, taking in the various posters of cars and women.

"Can I ask you a question?" he asks.

"Sure," I say wondering if I should also say, "You just did."

"Okay," he says, "But don't hate me." I nod with the glass to my chin, and then he continues, "There's a rumour going around, especially with the guys, that you're…" I look at him waiting for him to say it.

"Well… that you're _gay_." He somewhat stammers as he says _gay_. "Actually, you know what, don't answer that. That wasn't cool." He says abruptly.

"No..." I say.

"No?"

"No— I mean, yes. YES. Shit. Yes. I am as queer as a three dollar bill."

"Oh," he says biting his bottom lip nodding, "Well…"

"Why do you ask?"

"Just curious," he says. He stands up and begins fidgeting with a collection of medals hanging by his dresser. I pause for a moment before asking,

"Curious about me…" he turns around, "Or you?" I have no idea what I'm doing. I highly doubt my seduction tactics are effective, a little if even at all.

"I don't care that you are… _that_. I just wanted to make sure," he says. I nod awkwardly, looking to my left, trying to avoid any direct eye contact. "So do you think I'm hot?" he asks? I quickly look at him fumbling for an answer. I pause as inaudible words leave my mouth. "Do you think Silas is hot?"

"…"

"What about that guy… Leonardo DiCaprio?"

"Well, yeah," I say, hoping my answer neutralizes the situation.

"Is it true guys give better head?" he asks.

"What?" I say in a firm tone.

"Sorry," he says after a pause. He hangs his head and walks around his room, facing the wall, "It's already dark outside… Do you want something to eat?" he asks.

"Uh…. Sure?" I say. I'm really quite famished, so I was in no position to be polite, and settle with a glass of water for the day.

We walk around his kitchen, looking for snacks, but he tells me that his mother was supposed to come home late because she was grocery shopping, after work. After the search, I decide to take matters into my own hands and cook a quick pasta, with meat sauce and garlic bread on toast. With the few ingredients I could find in his massive kitchen, we eat at his dinner table. After that, we sit in his living room watching a hockey game of some team he admires. Once the first half ends, he turns to me and says, "That was the greatest fucking meal I've ever eaten in my life." I laugh under an exhale. "I don't think you understand," he continues, "like, that was better than my mom's!"

"Thank you," I accept modestly, burying my laugh in a blushing smile.

"They weren't kidding when they said 'Victor can do everything!'" he gazes at me and smiles.

"Well, not _everything_," I insist, "I mean, there's so much I still have to learn. And there are so many thing I don't understand, and things to discover and th—" he leans in quickly and shuts me up with a kiss. His lips against mine are surreal. He slightly exhales as I feel his breath warm my face for a moment, and then the cool are returns as he pulls away. I open my eye slowly.

"Sorry…" he says, "I should have—" I lean in again, with the hope that if real life is anything like the movies, he'd continue to kiss me. And he does. I feel his tongue enter my mouth. An unfamiliar feeling, but I know it feels right. I turn my head to the right, and he does the same. At this point, I throw my arms around him. He picks me up and slams my back against the wall. His breath is faster and warmer, and I can feel his heart beating faster in time with mine. With my legs wrapped around his waist, I pull myself even closer to him. I feel his body through his gym shorts as he carries me up the stairs. When we reach the landing, he holds me up with one hand, and uses the other to take off his shirt. I open my eyes, only to see his sculpted, Michelangelo-like abs. God, he looks like he belongs in an Abercrombie ad. Our lips still mould together as we approach his room. I take off my clothes and feel his warm, slightly sweaty, slightly hairy body against mine. The only clothes left on either of us is our underwear. I kiss his chin. I kiss his neck. I make my way toward his green and black striped boxers. I grab his firming cock through his underwear and squeeze it between my lips. Eventually I lower his boxers to his ankles and feel the hairs rising on his legs. I try to recall every dick-sucking technique I've ever learned. Ever. I count the steps in my head, trying to make this as perfect as possible. With my left hand, I grab the base, and with my right, I stroke in time with my mouth, knowing all eight inches could never fit in my mouth. I move from sucking to gliding up and down, across his shaft with my tongue, all while stroking. I remember the gag reflex disabling technique I read on the internet, and squeeze my left thumb as hard as I can. Hoping it actually proves useful, I make my way as far as I can, reaching my limit. I feel my eyes water and then I feel his big hand pressing the back of my head, deeper and harder. He tugs at my hair as I continue from tip to as-far-as-I-can-to-base. After the longest minute in my life, I manage to deepthroat his entire cock, as he lets out an exhale like I've never heard before. His toes clench, as his body squirms from shoulders to knees. I gently brush my feet to his as he clenches his fists, hopelessly, in his bed sheets. As I reach the tip, his warm, white, thick cum finds its way around my mouth. I feel it slowly drip down to my neck, and then drip on the back of my hand as he looks at me and says, "You better swallow that." In between breaths, he manages to laugh a little, then leans over to his end-table, and opens up a drawer. He moves a small stack of papers aside and asks, "Blue or green?" I look where his hands are, and see two packaged condoms.

"Blue," I say grinning, "My favourite colour."

He looks into my eyes and smirks, "You should have said green." He puts on the rubber and as soon as I know it, begins to fuck my brains out. And because this is a fantasy, I _accidentally_ left the camera recording.

End


	2. Just Friends Now Ongoing

_Just Friends Now_, Written March 14, 2012

I walked into the crowed hall hoping to find a familiar face to latch to for the day. The only person I knew was the undesirable Renita Terrien, who, for lack of better words, was a cunt. I lingered in the back of the room as I hoarded complimentary cherry cheese danishes and ballpoint pens. Finally, I made my way to a seat, close to the front, but still far enough to avoid being called on stage, if such a moment arose. Looking around, everyone seemed to be in grade 11 or 12. I must have been the youngest one in my immediate vicinity.

The seats quickly filled as the lights dimmed and a PowerPoint presentation let out its first slide. Judging from the layout and quality of the slideshow, I could tell the budget of this event was definitely higher than what I'm used to. At first, the slideshow began by only highlighting extracurriculars and sports. Being completely uninterested in the latter, I gazed around at the faces around me. I liked being in the dark with only one screen to light the room— I get to observe people without the risk of being caught. Alas, I looked to my left and noticed someone reflecting my boredom. He turned to me and whispered,

"You'd think a room filled with art students would be less interested in sports." In all honesty, I didn't know how to reply to that, so the only words to dribble out of me mouth were,

"I know, right?" Luckily for me, he seemed to know I wasn't one to keep a conversation going, but wouldn't mind a long one, either.

"I guess some people just drown themselves in sports to compensate for their stupidity." He had my type of ignorance, which compelled me to slightly turn to him, implying my interest in continuing this conversation.

"The only reason I'd set foot on a football field would be to photograph the team." I said, hoping my artsy-ness would sound appealing.

"Or to grope up some football players," he looked at me and winked with a grin.

I tried to suppress my laughter in the relative silence of the hall, "That, too." I said with a smile etched on my face. I thought about it for a while, and then I realized how some strangers can hold a conversation better than half the people in my high school. I smiled at him and glanced at the PowerPoint for a moment.

"Clyde," he whispered as he held out his hand.

"Andrew."

. . .

We continued brief, but frequent, conversation throughout the presentation. It seemed to nearly halt, as the Film Major stream was mentioned. Of course, by this time, I had already learned that we have several similar interests, and, to some surprise, we would be attending the same courses in a couple of years.

After the presentation, he invited me to _grab a snack_ with him, which rolled out into walking around the nearby mall, buying (and tasting each others') Starbucks orders and complaining about the price of living on residence of the ideal university. It was strange being so comfortable with someone in such a short amount of time. I've always considered myself socially inept, but I guess there was just no one worth talking to in the world of school and family in which I was so familiar. During all this time, neither of us discussed any deeply personal matters— conversation only reached as deep as superficial matters like mainstream culture and _The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo_— film and book. I wanted to ask a few questions that came with a certain level of trust, but I didn't want to risk losing, what seemed to be, an approaching unforgettable friendship.

There was something about him that was just… magical. I don't know if it was his dark blond hair that shagged on his forehead or how the bridge of his nose perfectly complimented his chin. His voice was deep, but not anything bizarre— it was smooth and calming and made conversation lush. While we continued chatting while walking in the mall, he gave me a look every now and again. I don't know if he was doing it intentionally, or if I was just completely misinterpreting it, but his eyes seemed to say "I want to get to know you more." Whenever I caught this look with my own eyes, I blushed, looked at my shoes briefly, and smiled in embarrassment. My response was subtle, but after doing it several times, I'd think he caught on. He smiled back and said nothing. His smile made me feel important.

. . .

We returned to the school hall for, what they called, a _free lunch_. After lining up and finding somewhere to sit, both of us joked about the ridiculous quality of food— cold chicken wraps with orange juice boxes. No one really ate anything in fear of sarcastically getting food poisoning; thank god we ate before. With this in mind, the internet sensation of _First World Problems_ ended up in the topic of discussion, and that seemed to spark the attention of the people sitting across us. The four of us ended up laughing and talking for the remaining half hour of the Open House event. Afterwards, we received a booklet from the staff, and a load of stickers and buttons, and a few people even bought T-shirts.

Clyde and I walked to the subway while sampling his favourite music on his iPod. Waiting for the train to arrive at the station, I thoroughly explained my love of trains. He seemed intrigued that a sixteen-year-old would be so in love with such a childish object like trains, but in a way, didn't seem to mind that it's what made me happy. The train arrived and we found a seat amidst the newspaper-reading travelers and mums-with-group-of-children. We sat in the seats quietly and I took the opportunity to admire the various advertisements on the wall. Not too long later, an automated voice announced that "The next station is Bloor". My genuine plastered smile of the day chipped off with the two words I expected to hear, but wished I didn't have to,

"That's me," he said.

"Oh..."

"It was really nice to meet you, Andrew…" I awkwardly held out my hand, "It's nice to know that there are still interesting people on this planet." It was a quirky response, but for me, phrases like that are the ones that come straight from the heart. He abruptly smiled and let out a timid laugh through his nose.

"I think we're past a handshake." He moved in closer and hugged me tightly. I could feel his cold plastic-leather jacket on my skin, but quickly got used to it. He leaned back slightly and gently kissed me on the cheek. I felt a shiver echo through my skin, and drew a short breath as the hundreds of butterflies pressed against my lungs. It was just a peck, but it was a peck I'd earned in only five hours. He let me go and a bittersweet smile found its way on my face. There was a moment of silence before he stood up, knowing that at any moment he would arrive at his station.

"I guess I'll see you in two years, then…" I said.

He paused for a moment, reached in his jacket, and pulled out a thin Sharpie marker. He held my hand and quickly scribbled down his phone number. The subway train began slowing down as we arrived at Bloor. I watched the ink slowly bleed through the many crack in my skin as I looked up at him.

"It doesn't have to be two years." He stuffed the marker back into his jacket, smiled, and then turned around and left the subway car. Before I could get a final glimpse of him, a crowd of people entered the train, and the doors closed behind them. The subway slightly jerked out of its halt as it began to pick up speed.

I sat back down, and stared at the black ink on the back of my hand for a while. I pulled out my phone and dialed the numbers carefully. I stared at the numbers on my phone for another while, and then eventually hit _call_. The phone only rang twice before I was greeted with the calming voice I'd eventually grow to love.

"What took you so long?"

At that moment, I felt a feeling I haven't known for a while— like an adventure was about to unfold. Not so much like the movies, but a feeling I enjoyed nonetheless. I smiled, forgetting that he couldn't see me, "You have _really_ terrible handwriting."

End


	3. Odis

_Odis_, Written January 26, 2012

Sitting in my cold room alone, I hear the rain tapping against the window. With water droplets falling from the sky in the middle of January, I wonder if I've ever had a chance. I wonder if what I'm waiting for doesn't actually exist. Or rather, it is too far away to hold. I know he doesn't like me. I'm making everything up in my head. I still hate myself for letting the thought cross my mind: he likes me the way I like him. He's just afraid of what others think of him. He'd actually be as comfortable holding my hand in public as I am, but only if we're alone. I don't mind. He'll come out when he's ready. I'm just waiting for the day when we're alone, after school. We've just finished filming for hours, after another day of our culminating performance task. I'm lying on his legs, as he slouches against the wall. A few people walk by, but no one stops to notice us. We talk about the past and future, as I stare at the ceiling and the occasional passing-by peer.

"Do you ever wonder what it'd be like to live alone, for university?" he asks.

"I don't know," I say playing with the strings of his neon orange hoodie, "I've never really thought of that, I guess."

"Because I was looking at Ryerson's film program and it looks pretty sick," he turns to me, and slightly pulls away as he sits up.

"Did you send in your application yet?" I say, "You know they're due on the 8th, right"

"Yeah, I know," he says groaning, "I'm not one-hundred percent sure if I want to go."

"Doesn't mean you can't apply!"

"I know… it's just…" I turn my head to look up at him. "My parents are being retarded, so I'm planning to move out after we graduate."

I pause for a moment, as I turn my head back, and stare at the adhesive holding the bottom of my shoe together coming off my shoes, "You really should say that word," I say quietly.

"Sorry," he says slightly smirking, "I just don't know what I'll do for, like, living."

"You could live on res?" I suggest, wondering what he's implying.

"Dude," he begins, "Do you think I'm filthy rich?" he smiles and lifts the knee under my head, "Actually, I was thinking if you'd want to be roommates, or something?" The silence echoes through the hall as my mind blanks.

"Sure," I spit out with a single, quick breath.

"Really?"

"Yeah, why not?" I turn to him again, then sit up, and then lean against the wall beside him. "Who else would share the rent, though?"

"Oh, well, I was looking at this place off Spadina— I came across it during a business assignment— and it only has two rooms… but it's only $450 a month." I nod in impression, slightly pursing my lips.

"You want to live with _me_?" I ask after a moment.

"You can cook right?" he says teasingly.

"Shut up!" I smile, looking again at my shoes. I blush hoping he doesn't notice. I've waited so long for a moment like this. It isn't quite how I hoped it'd be, but I guess it's just as good as any reality. But then I realize, this is no reality. He's probably at his house, playing video games or eating, and I'm here, alone in my bed, waiting for the day I can turn and see someone beside me.

End


	4. Reunion

_Reunion_, Written January 17, 2012

I sometimes imagine what it would be like to see you again. I imagine we'll meet down the line, when we're both on our ways to insignificant working class. I imagine you on your way to a weekly meeting. Nothing too important, but your team leader insists that attendance is mandatory. With a cream folder under your arm, you turn the corner only to bump into me. I spill my tray of scolding hot coffee over your light blue dress shirt.

"Oh, shit." I pick up the fallen graphs and smudging bodies of text and then look up at the victim of my clumsiness. My breath steadies for a moment as I wonder whether or not it's really you. A moment of silence catches us both. "Greg?" I ask. "Greg Flash?" You pause for a moment scouring your brain to remember me.

"You cut your hair." You say in a questioning tone.

"Yeah," I laugh with an exhale, "It was..uh..really high maintenance." We share somewhat of an empty laugh as if the past were somewhat fictional. I always imagine you as a business man. It's still unclear what you want to be when you grow up. I guess you _are_ grown up now. You're getting ready to graduate from high school. How is it that I could surround myself with nothing but you, for all that time, and still know nothing? But it was nice. I'd rather be alone with you in my mind, than alone with nothing to imagine.

"So how are things? How've you been?" you ask. I always like how you're the one to keep the conversation going, even when I was nothing short of a boring person.

"Good. Great." I say, glancing at the coffee soaking into the gray carpet. "Just graduated from North-Eastern. Went for my Bachelor of Architecture."

"So what brings you here?" You ask drying the last bit of coffee from your shirt. I guess the spill wasn't as bad as I'd though.

"I needed to run these permits." I say, nodding, "I've always hated the legal stuff." I glace at your nametag.

"I could help, if you need me to, you know?" Again, I wonder if you really remember me. If you were to ask me the same question ten years ago, I would have told you I was going to see a John or Sally. And that it was nice to see you. I would have let the opportunity slide away, and let it eat me away every night, as I tried to sleep.

"Uhh…" I say, so as to make me look not too desperate, "That'd be…awesome." I say jokingly. That was the only adjective someone gave me that I believed. Even if you were just being friendly, the only lie I let myself believe was that I was worth something, and you knew me well enough to remind me of that.

"I just gotta run these through, and I'll meet you here in about twenty minutes," you say, "Is that alright?"

"Sounds great!" I say humbly with a pinch of confidence, while scratching under my eye. I watch you walk down the corridor and sharply turn the corner. You've always had a tendency to walk tall, like a god. And you never swayed, or even budged, your arms, which always bothered me, but I've learned to live with it in your absence.

I fidget with my phone for a few minutes until I succumb to my thirst. I wander around looking for a vending machine or water fountain. Eventually I find the washroom area with an adequate fountain. I press my lanyard to my chest as I lean forward and rehydrate my lips. The water was perfectly cooled, not cold, but cold enough to remind me of life's simplest pleasures. I've never felt that way about a water fountain. Odd.

I continue waiting, as if I have nothing better to do, until the secretary from not-to-far down the hall asks if I need anything. I tell her I'm waiting, and she nods while returning to her phone call. The thought of just standing up and leaving crosses my mind, but the cons weigh out the notion. I know where you work now, so I could always come visit you. Maybe not always, but every month. Maybe every other month. Either way, I decided to stay. I forgot to check the time when you said "twenty minutes", so I can only hope that you'll return any time soon. From this point on, I measure how long you take. Ten minutes: still waiting. Fifteen. Seventeen. Twenty-two. You couldn't be blowing me off; you're not like that. Even if you were to change in the seventeen years you existed only as a memory in my mind, something as cruel and misleading as leaving me to wait for an hour just wouldn't be your style. Just as I pick up my coat and tie my scarf around my neck, you come running down the hall.

"I am _so_ sorry to keep you waiting this long!" you're leaning on the wall, with one hand on your knee, trying to find some air, "I went to the faxing room, and then my boss gave me the assignment, but forgot the project outline, so he had to go to Mark, who needed to call Erika, who was on maternity leave, so she told us to go to the Archives—"

"Gregory," I cut off your rambling, which never ceases to amuse me, "It's fine."

"I suppose you still need my help?" You say sounding subtly resentful. The way you asked seemed like you wanted to apologize, but I guess neither of us were good at it.

"Actually, I just realized I have to go to the bank," I say, with the _I'm ridiculously sorry _kind of half smile that ironically implies absolutely no happiness.

"Oh no, that's fine, then." You say, straightening up your shirt, "If you even need anything," you say with your hand tangled in your tie, "You can give me a call." You pull out your business card and offer it to me. It's so strange seeing you so professional. In my mind you're still the goofy, nerdy, nice, yet popular guy that consequently shaped me to who I am today. I guess you did change. After all, I wasn't any opposing force to your growth.

I take the card and before I get a chance to bury it in my wallet, you snatch it back, "Wait! Let me give you my personal cell. I might not always be in my office for the next few weeks."

"Thanks." I say, giving a smile, trying not to show my teeth. I tuck your card in between two twenty dollar bills. I tried to remember why I was in this building, but the feeling of already completing the unknown task rests at the back of my mind. Did I need to print something? Pick up something? Permits? Yes, permits. I needed to get them stamped. I guess I could always go tomorrow. It's already getting dark. Tomorrow is Sunday—I'll have to wait until Tuesday, because the flooring guys are coming Monday. Wednesday is when the intense planning begins, so it shouldn't be too late. I couldn't possibly ask you now; I need to stick to a lie for it to be true. At this point, silence catches us both, and you say something along the lines of "It was nice seeing you," or "I hope to see you soon." I guess the beauty of fantasy is the control I have. The control I can only assert in my mind. The kind of power that wouldn't go over well in the real world. I look at your blue ballpoint chicken scratches making out ten numbers. I don't think I'll ever be ready to dial them.

End


End file.
